The Waltz
by Space-Weazel
Summary: It is said that sometimes the most magnificent things do come in small packages, and that nothing can be turned into a fortune. Piccolo's Fortune is bitter, malevolent, a repulsive tick upon society. Or perhaps, when time does beckon, the silver shant tar


**Author's Notes:** Blows dust off this story This was my first love, my first attempt at writing . . .Now I feel like I have just enough experience to carry it out. Please, stay with me, I'm not a professional writer, I'm just your average 14-year-old schmuck who happens to enjoy writing. My stories will not be perfect, and I will make errors. If you can stand it, please do, I give you my word I am trying my best to write this fan fiction.

Started January 1st, 2005  
Finished February 27, 2005

**The Waltz**

_Chapter One: Can You See The Ocean?_

"_Gigantism – A condition where there is over-production of growth hormones by the pituitary gland in a child before the bone growth plates close, resulting in excessive long bone growth_"

A faint smile, the sound of music playing in the depths of silence. The scent of rose petals carried along the wind with fingertips of ash. He kept staring at the old record player, blue eyes searching it, almost begging it to continue its song. Hesitant claws, unnatural to this ear lightly scratched the painted finish, forming a line of solid white against the false, gaudy color what was presented. And when the music stopped, the lights faded to a shimmer, and the last person left the stand, he would sit there, waiting, because, after all, the show must go on, even if only in his mind's eye.

* * *

The waves crashed against the shore. It was not something to be readily appreciated by the people passing by, trying to get to work with the fainting hope that it would still be there when they arrived. Despite everything, every single day the waves went in and the waves lapped back to where they came, as if in a continuous loop that would last as long as time itself. As children, everyone loves the ocean to some extent. It represents power, majesty, mystery, things that we will never see, a foreign realm in the world, one as seemingly infinite as space, but within our reach. The feeling of the sand slipping out from under your feet as the water claims it, dragging it further out, the smell of the salt in the air, and the tiny shells that collect upon the beach after the tide comes in, such is what a childhood is about, or at least that was what his was going to be about, but this is a story meant for later, when the fog clears and the ocean is once more seen, not just heard.

Things were as they had always been in the springtime. The sky was blue, as it should be; the grass was in full green, alive, healthy, even the trees were coming back to life, each with its own blossom starting to bud. Perhaps that was the problem with this place, it never changed. As each season passed, summer gave way to fall, which gave way to winter, and lo and behold, soon enough spring would be back, and things would start all over again. Some say it is a miracle of nature, but as time passes, it only seems to be an everyday affair. Nothing is specifically spectacular about it, for after one has witnessed certain events long enough, not even the most astounding thing can excite them.

As the wind rustled the trees, making them sway as if directed by music inaudible to the ears of men, the birds soared high above, under the illusion that somehow they were better than any other creature because of their gift, the fawns roamed the forest, sticking close to their mothers when scared and dashing ahead like fearless adventurers when bold, and somewhere deep inside the seclusion, just behind the waterfall in that ever so remote area where no one cared to venture was a creature of another sort. This creature was not of the typical inhabitants that seemed to linger in these parts, nor was it of any cast that was readily made. Neither man nor animal, it was without place it both worlds. Dressed in worn garments of violet with shoes that had seen far better days, it, or rather he in all due sense of proper respect, was a sight within himself. His eyes, black as the night held more answers than the great libraries of ancient times, his very skin, the color of natural emerald had seen more than any man could fathom. Such was the price of his birth. Several lifetimes worth of memories, worth of heartache, hatred, malice, desire, unhindered power, all of it took residence inside one man, and every waking moment battled him with all that it could muster. It, like nature, never appeared to change.

Although it went unspoken, the thought was always there, keeping in the back of his mind as a little voice that prodded him before he drifted to sleep. The voice, though soft, tender always had one message, and it was always the same, ironically "You can change" It said on constant repeat. No matter how phrased, the gesture never changed.

It took ten years for him to listen. Ten long years for him to break, give into his mind, surrender his will, even if temporarily.

And perchance on that fine day he would make something more of himself, become more than what he was, do more than he ever dreamt of. We all have the possibility to be more than what we are, and if given the proper motivation, we all can. But again and again, it all comes down to one thing. Will we do it? Will we step out the door, break the mental barrier, do whatever it takes to climb to the top, even if it means dragging yourself there with your bare hands?

Like has been quoted many a time over, "Do or do not, there is no try."

Are you willing to try?

In Which It Begins

All the commotion seemed to be about nothing, nevertheless people rushed to get a first look, to be able to say they were there when it started. The lights shone bright as stars from behind the glass windows, the tile looked like platinum, pure, polished, far too good for any mortal to tread upon it, even the very stone the place was made of held an air of aristocracy as the sun gleamed off its flawless surface, reflecting it as the finest of marble, even though in reality it was nowhere near as grand, but the human eye gives it life, regardless.

That day, even if only for a moment, the building was the sparkling representation of perfection in architecture, for it was art to the people, their own momentous sculpture that far outweighed the triumphs of Michelangelo, Leonardo, the revered men who set the standards of their time that still stand proud in this age.

Soon enough the stone would dull, the lights dim, the tile scuff, but all that was so far away in their minds, for they were as cattle to the slaughter, unaware that the feed given tot hem was not out of love, but to serve the ultimate purpose of destroying them and their children.

It was exactly how they had wanted it.

All that day people brushed by the place, checking it out, marveling for their few minutes before moving on to go about their daily business. If they only knew, if they only had the slightest concept of what was to be, they would have taken a second glance, but of course little suspicious arose by any credible source. There would always be fanatics who claimed conspiracy on every thing from milk carton messages to billboards, and they, rather blatantly, pointed out every conceivable problem with the place, what could be wrong, what was supposedly going to destroy humanity, who was in cahoots with who, was there was a secret organization running the place; it would always be these people who kept the tabloids in business.

The applications would soon be taken, people accepted, jobs made. All sounds good, all appears well on the surface to the general public. It is only when you look deeper do you find the scare tactics that are inevitably doomed to rise one day. Threats of biological contaminants to harm the children, or radicals claiming to have power unsurpassed, of cults readying a holocaust. Such audacities are dreamt of for this world. History will always repeat and nothing new and wonderful shall be birthed unto this place- and it is all the fault of one misdemeanor boy whose ideas never lived up to the standards by which all intellect is judged by.

The system does not work for those who are unwilling to adapt to their new environment, the one that we are all thrown into from the very day we took our first breath. What about those people who are not strong enough? What about those who cannot help themselves, not for lack of trying, but for lack of ability? Should these many be prosecuted not by their beliefs, nor actions, nor will, but by their genetics, their accidents, their faults by which they have no power to control?

Obviously someone thinks so.

He drew his breath in haste, catching what little oxygen he could. Pale, rose petal lips tasted the floor cleaner that had only been there moments ago. It was not a pleasant taste, but compared to the likes of which could have been there, he saw no reason to complain, at least not loudly enough to bear any attention.

The white tiled floor stared back at him, returning the favor he granted to it. The paper-line cracks glistened, each leading across another tile till eventually arriving at ends meet, fading into a dove oblivion. The walls were no better off, probably less once one stopped to gaze upon them long enough to have a certain ache render in the pit of their stomach. Concrete painted white and stained by god-knows-what over the years. The stains never quite died out, but faded. To the experienced eye, the stains could be categorized not only by who made them, but also at what time they were made. Such expertise only comes through month upon ragged month of staring at the same rock walls, days of doing nothing but feeling the walls in prayer of finding one spot weaker than another. Doing just that was a growing company sport for all those who had the utter misfortune of not being too qualified for the job, or too under qualified to even make a janitorial position.

He was one of the latter specimens.

Dressed in ivory clothes to match his background, he stayed perfectly still, trying to blend in by will power alone. It was all just a game to him. Stay as quiet and still as you possibly could, become one with the floor, and maybe, just maybe no one would notice you were there, and in that time, you were free to venture in your own solitude perfectly undisturbed. It was the precious moments like those he treasured, what kept him going. False hope is often the most powerful of all.

With hands bound in careful bandages, hidden from the world and himself alike, he brushed over his flaxen hair, which was not quite decided upon whether to be blonde or a rather mundane shade of gray. For all his juvenile glory, the seemingly innocent gaze behind eyes of blue crystal, and the somewhat longing, fanciful questions of what lied beyond the horizon, there was one characteristic he could never change for all the wishing in the world and all the stars in the mid-summers night sky.

He was the wrong color.

A burning accusation tossed upon the lips of those who were acclaimed the 'right' color. What talk of which colors were good and which were bad was enough to make even the Greek scholars heads spin. Since when were shade of brown considered 'right' and shades of every other color considered 'wrong'. To him it always seemed like discriminating against pie. An argument over whether apple pie or cherry pie was better- when in his mind, bother were equally good, only made better when both were available at the same time.

Whatever the true good and bad colors were, he was proud of his, even though he had less than the capability of telling his color apart from any others. Green was the color of life, of grass, leaves, apples, and on occasion the tint of a sick persons' cheeks- but that's not a subject to go into. If others could have their pride and prejudice, then perhaps he could have his, and he did, when the subject turned to food. Regardless of what others said, mystery meat would always outrank mystery stew. No man, woman, or child alive could convince him otherwise.

The musing of his mind were only broken by the familiar crackle of the intercom and the ending argument between two people in training who had yet to figure out which buttons did what. The daily messages were read, congratulations went out to the couple who were married, a special notice about the girl scouts and their fundraisers was delivered, but aside from that, nothing out of the normal.

With nothing new to be said and positively no activities to be carried out except the ritual of wall-staring, he drifted comfortably, ashen green lids covering his eyes and wrapped hands tucked neatly under his head, leaving his whip of a tail to coil around his legs for warmth.

Perhaps he was not so odd at all, only perhaps.

From behind closed doors and shaded windows a woman smiled at him. Not a smile of pity, arrogance, or contempt, but a genuine smile. Her comments to others were short-lived, for fear of making herself shallowed by using terms such as _'it'_ instead of _'he'_ or _'they'_ instead of _'people'_. It was only human to consider that which is not like you unfit for such titles. Humanity is the only justification.

The woman laughed softly as the figure she was watching batted an imaginary insect from its nose in sleep, as it yawned, stretched, then re-curled in itself. It was like watching an infant in sleep; heartwarming till the poor dear woke up and ended that blissful silence that never lasts long enough.

She touched the glass lightly, palm creating a ring of heat around where she placed it. Knowing what who was on the other side of the window could never see her was empowering; yet distancing. She had the control to look away at any time and know full well that whenever she pleased she could glance right back and see the same person, but the other had no such luxury. For them, all they could see was the ink tint staring back at them- never aware of who or what was observing, who or what was talking. The thought pulled the corners of her lips downward. No matter how many times she could gaze through these portals, the same feeling would always exist- always.

"What's wrong with him?" Her voice, barely a whisper, asked into space, half expecting an answer, half expecting stillness.

The other people in the room looked at her, each opening their mouths then closing them abruptly to gather their words. Her confidence unquestionably dropped. She repeated her question, voice stronger, authorative, the voice of someone who does not expect answers from anyone, but demands them with an iron fist and a will sharper than any blade.

The lion side is more revered than the lamb.

A female in her mid twenties met her eyes. The woman had a neat appearance to her, russet hair kept tidily in a bun, cosmetics applied thinly, attire ironed and starched, giving a crisp, professional feel, in spite of the company outfits' grayscale qualities. She held her legal pad and clipboard between her elbow and wrist, other hand patiently skimming the page whilst the other secured it.

"Nothing is 'wrong' with him . . ." She answered finally, though left the sentence open hesitantly. " But." She paused again, collecting her speech, her sale. "He had a slight infection in both hands. Nothing major, something rather typical for children around here to get around here." She paused yet again, eyes regaining their focus on the opposing woman.

A nod was given in answer, and she continued.

"He appears to be perfectly healthy aside from that. Sometimes he complains about the occasional shoulder pain, but with the way these kids play with each other, it is nothing to worry about." Stopping, she smiled and looked out the window, lips loosening into the faintest smile. "In fact, he's one of the better children here. Quiet, respectful, organized, bright . . ."Her eyes traveled back to the woman. "-And honestly, there are no better."

"_There are no better."_- Words, like so many others, that will live in infamy.

"_Children might or might not be a blessing, but to create them and then fail them is surely a damnation." _–Lois McMaster Bujold


End file.
